You slip off your shoes. The lush grass is soft against your soles, cool, slightly damp in spite of the searing sun. You ball up both feet, alternating them as you clench at the grass with your toes. The delectable hint of a breeze wafts across your face, stirring the few strands of hair plastered to your forehead by the perspiration. Somewhere behind you, the drone of traffic on the trunk road has been reduced to little more than a mildly annoying buzz. If you concentrate on the sporadic bird calls, on the whispered rippling of the grass and the trees, on the warmth of the sun on your body, it fades away completely.
Smiling, you close your eyes, open your arms wide, and embrace the feeling of oneness with nature.
Stepping up behind you, he brushes the hair away from the nape of your neck and presses his lips against your warm, salty skin. His mouth moves sideways, towards where your exquisite neck curves elegantly through your collar and into your shoulder, stitching a line of tender kisses that makes you shiver. His hands find your hips, and then his palms slide inwards then upwards, over your belly and up to your breasts. He cups them through your thin summer dress, moulding them to his grasp, squeezing your yielding flesh just hard enough to make you gasp, to press your behind back towards his loins.
You chuckle wantonly as you feel the hardness stirring, growing within his trousers. You force your arse against him now, lazily wriggling your hips as his teeth nip at the side of your throat. He presses back to meet you, to match you, the heft of his cock pressing tantalisingly between the fullness of your cheeks. Now you both sigh. That’s the moment when his fingers locate the first of the buttons lining the front of your dress and flick it deftly open. The others quickly follow suit.
He draws the two halves of your dress apart and slips it from your shoulders, revealing you to the world. The gesture leaves you feeling both exposed and liberated, and both emotions are equally thrilling. The breeze feels wonderful upon your heated skin. You look down the front of your body, drinking in the contrast between your light tan and the white lace of your lingerie, the firmness of your belly and your thighs, the tautness of your nipples through the diaphanous cups of your brassiere. Then his palms find your softness again, and you close your eyes and lose yourself in the merging of the world and his caresses.
You barely notice when he stops to unfasten your bra and scoop the thin straps over your shoulders and down your arms.
“Lie down,” he tells you, and you open your eyes and realise he has laid your dress across the grass as an impromptu blanket. You sit down upon it without hesitating and lie back. He steps toward you, and the silhouette of his head and broad shoulders blocks out the sun. You have to squint against the brilliant halo to make out his expression: fierce desire, irresistible hunger. It makes you shudder.
Looking down at you, he starts to undress. He doesn’t rush. Jacket, tie, shirt: all are removed at an even pace and then dropped to one side. He pulls off his shoes, peels off his socks and then undoes the belt on his trousers. Your eyes widen a little when you realise that beneath the wool slacks, he is naked, his manhood tumescent. His answering grin is wolfish.
He kneels down between your parted calves, leans forward and carefully hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties. You raise your hips to help, and he draws the delicate garment down your legs and slips it off.
For the first time as a woman – a sexual woman – you find yourself naked in the open air, utterly nude before your lover and the world. There’s a part of you that’s crying out for you to get to your feet and run through the grass, your hair streaming out behind you as you race across the meadow, your arms held wide to embrace the wind, laughing with wild abandon as your naked lover chases after you, runs you down, takes you against the lush earth and makes you scream with pleasure.
Knowing that you’re watching intently, he raises your panties to his nose and breathes you in; once, twice, three times. Then he throws the lace and cotton atop the mound of his clothes.
“They’re for me,” he says, and you know that there’s no questioning his intent. So you smile, daringly, wantonly, and wait for him to begin.
He lifts one of your legs so that the sole of your foot is against his shoulder. He kisses you on the inside of your ankle, his lips gradually stitching another tender line of kisses along the side of your calf as the tips of his fingers draw myriad lines back and forth across your thighs. Each time his fingers find the first softness of the curve of your arse, they retreat, raising your temperature and increasing your frustration. Eventually, he lowers your leg and then lifts the other, repeating his ministrations with an almost fussy precision. Again, each time his fingers get close to your cheek, to the point where it curves inevitably towards your sex, he draws them away again.
Just as you’re considering pressing yourself towards him, forcing yourself against his dancing digits – so that they’re finally where you need them to be – he lowers your leg and stretches himself out in the opening you’ve left for him. Now his kisses rain down along the vulnerable flesh of your inner thighs, and you lie back and stare up at the cobalt sky as his mouth rises, rises, rises. The tip of his tongue darts out to lick along the invisible seam where your thigh meets your torso. His cheek brushes against one side of your sex, then your mound, his bristles tickling the freshly shaved skin. You bite down on your bottom lip and keep your gaze fixed to the sky while the sensations consume you, become your world. Now he’s descending along the opposite side and your belly flutters. Far above you, a tiny jet streaks west across the firmament, a quartet of gossamer threads dividing the sky in the wake of its back-swept wings. You watch the aircraft’s progress, idly wondering about its destination, its passengers. Are there lovers on board, stealing away at a little less than the speed of sound for a few days’ illicit pleasure? And as the thought occurs to you that there must be, must be, his tongue presses its way deep inside your sweltering cunt, and your eyes spasm shut and you can’t stop yourself reaching for the back of his head.
“Fuck!” you gasp, as his tongue withdraws to explore the edges of your portal, then plunges back inside you. At it does, his thumb finds the pearl of your clitoris and caresses it at a pace that complements the fucking of his tongue. You reach out on either side of yourself, and your hands clutch spasmodically at the grass as he pleasures you.
Now his mouth moves upwards, and two of his fingers slip inside you to take the place of his tongue. They curl inside you, caressing the front wall of your cunt as the tip of his tongue drums lightly across your clit. You gasp out, your fingers digging beyond the grass, into the cool soil below, and you claw at it as the pleasure grows. The rhythmic massaging of his fingers, the rapturous flickering of his tongue meld until they become indivisible. As the waves rise inside you, the world shrinks about you; the birdsong and the breeze fade away, the blue of the sky darkens, becoming ultramarine and then midnight. Soon, there is only the muted darkness behind your eyelids and the rapid thud of your heart.
You’re getting close. Your hands return to the back of his head, pressing his mouth more firmly against you as your soles press down against the grass and you lift your hips a fraction towards him. He understands the message. His lips enclose your clitoris and he begins to suck, drawing you into his mouth; at the same time, the pace and firmness of the strokes of his drumming tongue both increase.
“Fuck yes! Yes!” you cry, not caring how loud your voice is, how far it might carry across the landscape. You bear down, forcing your sex back against his insistent, oh-so-clever mouth, and then you explode, an eruption of shuddering sensation that begins at your clitoris and then radiates outwards like a shock wave through your flesh. It feels like you’ve been blown out of yourself, sent careering upwards, streaking towards the commuter jet that passed overhead. You have the craziest vision of yourself, floating outside the window of the aeroplane, the passengers gawking at you through their Plexiglas portholes like you’re the Adams’ baby. Your mouth opens wide, but you don’t know if you’re making any sound because you can’t hear anything, can’t feel anything, beyond the pulses of pleasure that are tearing through you, propelled by the drumming of his tongue, the sucking of his mouth.
At last you sense his mouth slipping away, and the relief is palpable, because you’re on the edge of what you can take, pleasure on the verge of becoming distraction, becoming discomfort. You need to be left alone for a few moments, to rock gently back to Earth, to settle back into yourself. Yet even as you’re beginning to uncoil, the tensions seeping from your loins, you sense him above you. You open your eyes and his head is haloed by the sun once more, his face a mask of shadow. The tip of his cockhead nudges its way inside your cleft, igniting your nerve endings once more, and before you can say anything, make even a sound, he’s sliding inside you.
Your body doesn’t offer even a wisp of resistance to his will.
Your mouth falls open soundlessly once again and you turn your face away from him, the soft, cool grass wonderful against your cheek as he fills you, cleaving your sacred flesh apart like some succulent fruit. You feel the weight of his balls against the cheeks of your arse as his hilt finds yours, the stubble on his chin against the side of your throat, his lips against your ear. His guttural gasp of delight ripples down your spine.
You clasp your legs about him, binding him inside you, to you. The tip of his tongue traces the edges of your ear, and then his teeth nip gently on the lobe. You squeal with delight, pressing yourself back to meet each of his thrusts, and your hands clasp at his broad shoulders, your nails raking his skin. In answer, his thrusts deepen and quicken. The words become a silent prayer, its chant audible only in your head:
Yes. Yes. Yes!
The passage of his flesh within yours, the firmness of his pubis against your clitoris, drive you towards the brink of control once more.
“Come with me,” you sigh, you implore, as your second climax draws near. “Come with me.”
You feel the delicious resonance of his shaft within the oiled velvet of your cunt, count each throbbing pulse as he spills himself inside you. Your cries of bliss meet his, entwining as they roll across the open land, and then you bite down hard on his shoulder as you come all over his cock.
You lie like that for minutes, hours, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the gentle breaths of air, the sensation of him wilting inside you. Eventually, he parts his spent flesh from yours and rolls on his back beside you. You watch the sky together in contented silence.
Another westbound plane crosses through your line of sight.
“I wonder where they’re headed,” you muse.
“Somewhere exciting, I imagine,” he answers, still staring straight up.
Now you smile. “Sometimes, exciting is right on your doorstep.”